


I'm Not Right for You (You're No Good for Me)

by overratedantihero



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Age Inappropriate Relationship, Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jealousy, M/M, No Incest, Overextended metaphor, Possessive Behavior, father/son tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-19 22:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15520008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: Dick is injured after Superman has a run-in with red kryptonite. Bruce struggles with Dick's choice of company.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I swear to god I just wanted Slade to get beaten up and then it became this.

Dick woke slowly, painstakingly. His eyes stung from behind his lids, like that time he had to wear mascara and he forgot to take it off before bed. As lucidity began to take hold, so did the sensations around him. Of rock jutting into his limbs, of bruises blossoming. He took a breath and immediately launched into a coughing fit from the dust clouding the air.

When he managed to pry his eyes open, he first saw Bruce, in the cowl, hovering over him as if unsure where to begin. Clark was peering over Bruce’s shoulder, guilt and horror intermingling in his expression. Slowly, the events of the past hour filtered through the headache that had begun to throb. Clark, red kryptonite, unfortunate reaction involving hallucinations. Dick was thrown into a building at a forced that should have killed him, but—

Deathstroke.

Deathstroke was trafficking kryptonite variants. Bruce arrived to stop him, Clark insisted on joining given his investment. The driver got spooked, crashed the armored vehicle. In saving the driver, Clark was exposed to red kryptonite and began to hallucinate. He’d attacked Bruce, and then Dick. Clark threw Dick against a building, but Deathstroke intercepted him, wrapping Dick in his arms and taking the brunt impact with his own body.

Dick scrambled up, even though Clark and Bruce shouted at him to be still, go slow. Sure enough, Slade was sprawled, unconscious and half buried in rubble. Dick shoved away brick and plaster, pulling Slade’s torso out with strength only afforded by adrenaline. He placed Slade’s head in his lap and checked his pule.

It was steady.

Slade cracked open his eye and groaned. He wasted no time in getting a hand underneath himself and lifting himself out of Dick’s lap to lean against his shoulder instead. “Stupid, all of you,” Slade hissed.

Both Bruce and Clark straightened their shoulders and reared back, ready to intervene, but Dick shook his head.

“Don’t,” Dick rasped. “Would’ve—” Dick exploded into a coughing fit, spraying blood onto his hand. “Fuck,” he whispered as the world turned. He pitched to the left, but arms encircled him.

Slade whispered in his ear, “C’mon, kid. None of that.”

Dick slurred in response. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, but he knew it was important that Slade heard it. He thought he heard Slade snorting right before everything faded to black.

 

* * *

 

 

Dick woke to shouts. He willed himself to sleep, but the tension in the room was palpable. He chose to listen instead.

“How _dare_ you tell me how to parent my son!” That voice was Bruce. Only Bruce could sound so defensive over his parenting style, no matter that his parenting style included late nights and kicks to the teeth. Back when Tim was still attempting high school, Bruce argued with his teachers nearly weekly over his performance. Bruce was not a sensitive man, but he was sensitive to criticism. “Of all people,” Bruce growled.

“I know where I stand with my children.” Calm, cool, unaffected. Slade. “The difference between you and I is that I’m self-aware. I don’t bear delusions about them, and I didn’t dress them up and shove them into gunfire. They chose that lifestyle on their own, that was their prerogative.”

Dick’s head was pounding, and his chest hurt. He felt like he did after that time he let Wally drive and they ended up wrapped around a tree, alive by the grace of superspeed but still bruised to hell.

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “Both of you.”

“Dick,” both men breathed in unison. Dick pried his eyes open in time to see them glaring at each other. They were in the Batcave, which was both unsurprising and shocking given Slade’s presence. But, knowing Slade, he already knew the location of the Batcave anyway. Bruce was still in the cowl and Slade was in his suit too, although missing his mask.

“Where’s Clark?” Dick whined. “I miss Clark. Clark doesn’t yell around me.”

Bruce’s face hardened into something unreadable, but Slade snorted.

“Superman had business to attend to elsewhere. He stayed until you were stable,” Slade offered before sauntering over. “How do you feel, little bird?”

Dick squinted up at him from where he lay. “Are you okay? You crushed the outer wall of a building. With your body.”

Slade rolled his eyes. “Worry about yourself, kid. You don’t have a healing factor, as your guardian knows,” Slade shot a glance over his shoulder. Bruce glowered.

“Perhaps I should have let Superman escort you to Arkham, before Dick woke,” Batman growled out. “As it is, you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

“Or,” Dick offered, sitting up with a wince. “Or, he could help me to my apartment. Because the Cave is just making my headache worse.”

Bruce appeared as if he had been struck. “Your room here is made up for you, you’re welcome to stay for as long as it takes to heal.” And then, because Bruce was not opposed to underhanded tactics, “Robin would appreciate your presence in the manor, he misses you.”

Dick sighed, slumping enough that Slade wrapped an arm around his torso to hold him steady. Bruce watched Slade’s arm as if it would grow teeth and devour Dick whole.

“I’m tired, B, and I want to go home. Damian can visit me in ‘Haven,” Dick murmured.

“Fine,” Bruce said. “But let me drive you.” Dick opened his mouth, but Bruce cut him off, “Slade can bring your motorcycle if he’s so eager to be useful.”   

“I didn’t offer,” Slade observed, bemused, “but anything for a pretty bird.”

The ride home was long, and tense. Dick slumped with the seat back low, soothed by the strange touch of oxycontin. Bruce drove, having changed into a suit without a tie. He was grasping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. On the center console, a brown paper bag filled with frozen, home cook meals sat. Dick considered placing one on his heated skin, if only to explore the sensation of floating numbness gifted by the pain medication, but he’d never disrespect meals from Alfred and so he didn’t.

“He won’t be staying with you,” Bruce said. It wasn’t a question. Dick giggled.

“I don’t know what Slade intends to do,” Dick murmured, grin wide. “It’s what makes it a game.”

Bruce took a sharp inhale. “He isn’t a game, Dick. He’s a murderer and an opportunist. Stay away from him.”

“But, B,” Dick whined, glancing up at Bruce through his long lashes. “If he’s a murderer and an opportunist, isn’t that more reason to keep an eye on him? I’m _watching_ him, B. I’m a one-man taskforce, you’re welcome.”

Bruce frowned and shook his head. “You’re medicated. We’ll discuss the severity of the circumstances when you’re lucid again.”

When they reached Dick’s apartment, Dick was drifting in and out of a colorful nap in which navy-orange-yellow apparitions taunted him. Rather than wake him, Bruce lifted him from the vehicle as if he weighed nothing and carried him up the four flights of stairs himself.

“Can walk,” Dick protested, head lolling. Bruce shook his head.

“Let me,” Bruce murmured, voice strained and unfamiliar. “Just—please. Give me this.”

Dick didn’t ask what he meant. He just quieted and nestled his head against Bruce’s shoulder.

The apartment door swung open as soon as Bruce reached it, and Slade raised his eyebrows as Bruce carried Dick in.

“Kid that far gone?” he asked, closed the door behind them and following Bruce and Dick to the bedroom, where Bruce gently laid Dick out on the bed.

“No,” Dick sighed, cuddling into his pillow and groaning at the sensation of cool fabric dragging against his skin. “I just like to be a damsel sometimes is all.”

“Oxytocin,” Bruce explained when Slade shot him an inquiring look. “You were just leaving?” Bruce asked, crossing his arms.

Slade titled his head. “I would hate to leave the kid alone, given his state. I think I’ll stay.”

“Leave, Wilson. You’re unwelcome here,” Bruce demanded through gritted teeth.

Dick let out a frustrated groan that caught both men’s attentions.

“Will you cut it out?” Dick shot at Bruce, still holding onto his pillow. “It’s fine. I want him here, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Dick—” Bruce began, but then his cellphone rang. Not his actual cellphone, his “work” phone. Bruce gave Dick one last, pleading glance before answering.

“Yes?” Bruce murmured, glaring at Deathstroke. “Is this immediate? Can it not wait?” He paused as the other person, likely Oracle or Tim, spoke, and then his expression flattened into resolve. “Okay. I won’t be long.” Bruce hung up the phone and glanced back at Dick.

“Go,” Dick insisted. “I’ll be fine. Tell Oracle to monitor the apartment, if it makes you feel better. Send Jason or Kate over.”

Bruce grunted and then reluctantly tore himself away to stride towards the exit. He paused when he passed by Slade. “Harm him and I’ll maim you so creatively it will make your ex-wife seethe.”

Slade cracked a grin. “Good luck. She’s a resourceful woman.”

Just before Bruce left, Dick called out to him. Bruce turned, eyes brightening. “Yes?”

Dick sat up in bed, clutching his pillow, eyes and shoulders heavy with fatigue and drugs. “If you send someone, send Kate. I just remembered that I owe Jason money.”

Bruce closed his eyes. “Yes, Dick. Go to sleep, Dick.” And then he was gone.

“How’s your dosage, little one? Do I need to get you more?” Slade asked, once he’d returned from locking the door behind Bruce. Dick nestled into his mound of bedding.

“No more oxy,” Dick insisted. Slade hummed.

“Would you accept a shot of whiskey, then?”

Dick hesitated and then assented, so Slade went to the kitchen, unburied the bottle of whiskey he kept there, and returned to Dick with two shot glasses.

 He helped Dick sit up in bed and then he settled down next to him. He gave Dick a shot glass and then poured whiskey in his own, downing five shots over Dick’s indignant protests. Only then did he fill Dick’s. Dick took it without blinking.

“You took so much,” Dick whined.

“Leveling our playing field,” Slade mused. “How do you feel?”

“Warm,” Dick murmured, nestling closer to Slade and resting his head on Slade’s shoulder. “How long has that been in my apartment?”

Slade took a swig directly from the bottle. “A while,” he murmured, voice roughened by the burn of the alcohol. “You drink swill, kid.”

Dick hummed and closed his eyes. “Your suit’s uncomfortable.”

“I could take it off, if you’d let me up.”

Neither moved for several minutes. Finally, Dick lifted himself up just to settled back down under his covers. Slade left the bed, set aside the whiskey, stripped down to his briefs, and returned. Dick reached for him, but Slade caught his wrist.

“You nearly shattered every bone you have,” Slade warned. “Do not wrap yourself around me like you usually do. Settle down, don’t reinjure yourself.”

Dick must have looked heartbroken because Slade sighed, laid down next to him, and then, as if Dick was made of glass, gingerly wrapped his arms around Dick’s torso. Dick happily buried his face in Slade’s collarbone.

When Slade’s breathing evened out, Dick also began to drift, but then Slade murmured, “You scared me, kid. If you weren’t so soft on him, I’d kill him for what he did.”

Dick mumbled his dissent. “Clark didn’t mean it. It was the kryptonite—the kryptonite _you_ were trafficking. And it’s okay. I’m okay. You made sure of that.”

Slade gripped him tighter, tight enough that it lit Dick’s pain even through the haze of oxy and whiskey, rendering Slade's previous warning moot. “You’re mine, kid,” Slade growled so deep that Dick felt it in his chest.

“I’m not,” Dick murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Slade’s skin. Slade didn’t loosen his grip.

“I want to break you down,” Slade continued, burying his face in Dick’s hair.

“I know,” Dick murmured, caressing the knobs of Slade’s spine with his fingertips. “But you won’t.”

“One day, little bird,” Slade cooed, releasing Dick and lifting himself enough to look Dick in the eyes, which were murky in the dim room, “you’ll fly too close to the sun. Your wax wings will melt, and I’ll be there, in your fall from grace, to swallow you into the depths.”

Dick blinked up at him, weary and affectionate all at once. “Go to sleep, Slade.”

Slade snorted and smiled softly. “What would it take to make you afraid of the big, bad wolf?”

Dick wrapped his arms around Slade’s neck, pulling him down and close. Slade acquiesced, adjusting Dick into a gentler hold while he resettled in the sheets.

“I’ll never understand,” Dick murmured into his skin, “how you can still think I’m drawn to the sun.”


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue inspired by a comment from Averia!

“Clark, really, you don’t have to do this,” Dick murmured, weakly and not for the first time. Undeterred, Clark continued to dust Dick's bedroom's overhead light. Slade lounged, legs loosely crossed, in a chair beside Dick’s bed. His mouth was set in an unimpressed line and he kept an arm on the bed, as if he’d need to leap in front of Dick at a moment’s notice. Dick had an inkling that Slade was doing it to goad Clark, to layer his guilt and imply that Dick wasn’t safe around Clark, but Dick was too exhausted to argue with both Slade and Clark at the same time and so he let it be.

“I want to, Dick,” Clark assured him, pushing his glasses back up his nose. The glasses weren’t necessary, and neither were the twelve casseroles in Dick’s freezer but that didn’t stop Clark.

Slade had been disgruntled when Clark appeared at Dick’s doorstep, a mountain of food in tow. But Slade was only at Dick’s side by the good graces of the capes, and so he had let him pass. He'd made snide remarks when Clark left to go pick up cleaning supplies upon realizing Dick’s apartment could use a good scrub, but he otherwise behaved.

Now Slade hovered and Clark cleaned and Dick kind of just wanted to rest.

“What happened wasn’t your fault. If anything, Slade’s the one who was trafficking the kryptonite, so I really don’t think you should worry,” Dick pleaded.

Slade raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t trafficking it, I was guarding the traffickers. They paid well.”

Clark frowned. “You are just as bad as they are by taking the contract in the first place. We’re all fortunate that Penny Two safely removed the kryptonite, you saw how destructive it can be. I’m sorry, Slade, but your missed paycheck is worth its containment.”

Dick wanted to laugh at the absurdity of Clark’s apology, but his ribs ached so he tapped Slade’s arm and Slade obligingly fetched Dick his pain pills from the night stand, offering him two along with the glass of water also on the night stand. Dick downed them while Clark looked on, eyebrows furrowed.

Once he returned the pills and water, Slade murmured casually, “Your condolences are unnecessary, Superman. My payout cleared yesterday, once the kryptonite was delivered safely to its intended destination.”

Clark’s mouth fell open and Dick flopped down on his pillows and groaned, “Slade!”

“No, Penny Two—“ Clark began.

Slade interrupted him, while gently brushing Dick’s hair from his eyes, “Julia Pennyworth, you can say her name. She never received the Bat’s transmission. It was intercepted.”

“That’s impossible, Bruce sent the request, his tech—“ Clark blurted, clearly abandoning his cleaning project for the time being.

“Is fallible,” Slade asserted. “Did you see Julia? When the helicopter arrived to carry away the shipment?”

Clark hesitated. “Well. No, I was— Dick was—“

“Don’t blame this on him,” Slade chided. “You threw him into a building and then you didn’t confirm that the shipment was secured. Wintergreen was even surprised by the ease with which he was able to pose as the transport.” Slade looked away from Dick to meet Clark’s furious glare. “Don’t be too, upset, Boyscout. I’m a professional, I have a reputation to maintain.”

Dick sighed, allowing himself to sink into the medication. “We should invite B too,” he slurred to no one in particular. “Make this into a proper brawl.”

Clark blanched. “We’re not— I wouldn’t do that here, this is your home.”

“He’s tired,” Slade murmured to Clark. “Go back to cleaning up the mess you made, I’ve got him.”

Clark opened his mouth and then closed it. He glanced to Dick with furrowed brows. “Really, Dick?”

Dick mumbled something about wax wings and fell asleep.

 


End file.
